


The Librarian Chapter

by DollBones



Series: The D.E.N.N.I.S Files [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Cognitive Dissonance, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Statutory Rape, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollBones/pseuds/DollBones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dennis has a rough start to high school. Lonely and vulnerable, he takes a volunteer position at the library, where the librarian takes a special interest in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Golden God Cometh

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make Dennis a little more naive here, as he would be at such a young age, while still possessing many of the character flaws that would come to full bloom later in his life. It's Dennis, so there's a great deal of rationalization and emotional conflict going on in here.

Dennis was fourteen years old and the king of his high school.  It was just that nobody knew it yet.  Dennis didn't begrudge the other students this, though.  He was, after all, a mere freshman, and hadn't really had the time to establish his obvious superiority.  To these people, he was a blank slate, as naive and identity-less as a newborn babe.  However, he was working to change that.

Over the summer, he'd wheedled his mother, who in turn had pressured his father, into buying him a completely new wardrobe of designer clothes.  He'd learned to cut and style his hair after the models in GQ magazine.  He'd even studied his sister's copies of Cosmogirl and Teen Vogue for what the supposedly fairer sex looked for in his gender.  With special interest, he surveyed the beauty section of the magazines, which he found contained a treasure trove of useful information.  Like how to conceal his occasional run-ins with adolescent skin issues, and how to contour his cheeks to get that gauntly handsome look. 

Of course, looking the part was only half the struggle.  Dennis had also watched hours of Beverly Hills, 90210 and teen movies, focusing on the lingo and the mannerisms of the male characters.  Later in front of the mirror, he'd practiced his role.  It was the little details that lent an act realism.  Showing the right amount of teeth when he smiled, tilting his head so that the light caught his eyes.  Throwing his shoulders back and straightening himself to achieve a confident gait when he walked, but slouching just enough to give the impression of cool apathy.  

So he was a little dismayed when four months into his freshman year, he still had not made any friends.  Lesser people would have been devastated, crushed, by such a predicament.  But Dennis was a superior person who didn't allow outside annoyances to dwindle his self-worth.  If a large lump gathered in his throat when he walked through the crowded hallways and he felt himself stiffening, clamping up like a vise, it was only because he was preparing himself for unexpected social interactions.  If his mind buzzed with radio static and his fingers trembled while holding his books when he saw other kids pass him, laughing with their friends without even the slightest nod in his direction, it was only irritation from not receiving the proper adulation he was due.

 _They're not worthy of your time anyway,_ he told himself as he sat alone at lunch, watching the other students from a table in the far corner of the cafeteria.  An uninformed outsider might have assumed that he was sitting alone because he was an outcast.  Fools, he thought.  In actuality, Dennis was watching the other kids from a removed, rarefied distance, like a god looking down upon the activities of mere mortals.  If he wanted, he supposed he _could have_ sat with his sister Dee.  Poor Dee, he mused, imprisoned inside the back brace she'd been forced into a few weeks before school began.  The metal monstrosity had swiftly thrust her into the society of the school's freaks and rejects.  Sitting with her would be total suicide for his reputation.  God knows it would be bad enough when people found out they were related.

One day, another boy stopped by his table.  Dennis recognized him as Tim Murphy, a member of the popular crowd.  He sat up straighter and bestowed upon him his trademark winning grin.

Tim Murphy smiled back.  He was very charming, Tim.  Dennis had watched him and marveled at his craft; he gave a performance so convincing that he seemed genuinely affable and good-natured.  "Hi," Tim said, "I noticed you're sitting by yourself here.  Would you like to sit with me and my friends at our table?"

Inside, Dennis glowered.  He didn't need pity.  This boy should be on his knees, begging him to sit with him.  Still, like a scavenger bird, his brain swooped down and snatched up the proposition, shrewdly turning it over and concocting plans.  The Cool Table was the meeting place for the absolute elite of the high school pecking order.  If Dennis won these people over, conquered them, and anointed himself their leader, he could reign supreme over the whole student body.

"I'm Tim, by the way," the other boy said, with another friendly smile.  Seeing the effect, Dennis wilted a little.  Tim had great hair, jet-black and sleek, like the coat of a panther or some other lean, sexy creature.  It was nothing like Dennis' mop of wild and sometimes irritating (but also thick and luxurious) curls.   _I bet he never has to spend a half hour combing his hair so that it lays just right,_ a poisonous voice whispered into his thoughts.   _I bet he wakes up like that.  And look how tan he is._

Dennis clenched his hands into fists, willing the voice away.  That all may be accurate, but Tim's eyes weren't his startling shade of blue, and they didn't dance the way Dennis knew his did when he turned on the charm.  With this reassurance, he relaxed, lowering his hackles.

"I'm Dennis," he told Tim.  He beamed at him, imagining the glare of his perfect opalescent teeth burning the boy's retinas.  "And I'd love to."

 

From that day on, Dennis had a permanent seat at the Cool Table.  The rise of his popularity was astonishing, even to himself.  People whispered about him when he passed now, and girls looked at him.  Coincidentally, word got out around this same time about how wealthy he was.  The other popular kids in particular were obsessed with the subject, admiring his expensive clothes and constantly asking about the mansion where he lived.  As usual, his twin sister Dee, forever jealous of him, had to go and spoil his fun.  

"They're only letting you hang out with them because you're rich, you know," she'd said after he bragged to her about the friends he'd made.

He laughed and said, "Dee, if I can buy my friends and you can't, then you're even more of a loser than I thought you were."

Yet, she got to him.  Buying popularity was a hollow victory, even if the ends justified the means.  When he followed the popular kids around, he watched them carefully for signs of dislike.  Were they really just tolerating him?  Did they really listen to all the cool stuff he interjected into their conversation?  Or when he opened his mouth, did they sort of just let everything he said glide off them like water off a duck's back, as he did with other people?  Dennis was brooding upon this one day, also worrying about his hair (Should he let it grow so that it was like a fecund, untamed garden hanging over his forehead, or should he cut it short like the jocks wore theirs?  He'd tried to ask one of the jocks for their opinion, but the football hulk had just stared at him blankly), when he noticed the flyer on the school bulletin board.  

Originally, he'd come there to see when the opening night was for the school musical.  Dee had somehow gotten the lead role, and he wanted to get a front-row seat for when she inevitably failed. Next to the poster for Frankenstein: The Musical--of course, how could Dee get a role for anything but a hideous monster, he thought with gleeful malevolence--was a flyer calling for volunteers at the school library.

 _Hmm, could be interesting._  Plus, a bit of volunteer work could pad up future college applications.  Dennis scrawled his signature upon the empty sign-up list.

 

 


	2. Don't Check Me Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get twisted here. You have been warned.

Dennis liked books.  Ever since he was a little boy, he'd known the great power of words, and how the right ones could cast a spell to enchant or manipulate.  Also, everybody knew that all cultured, refined, superior people were well-read.  Thus, he took comfort in the library, ensconcing himself in the works of the literary greats: Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, Edgar Allan Poe, and F Scott Fitzgerald.  

Working in the library was quiet, peaceful.  Hardly any students visited during the period he was there, so he didn't have to worry about having to talk to anyone.  Constantly having to put on an act and maintain a certain image got exhausting sometimes.  In the library, he could hide behind walls of books and strip himself of the stress of being Dennis Reynolds: Teen Dream, Dennis Reynolds: Golden Son, and Dennis Reynolds: Exemplary Student, and simply be Dennis.  Who "Dennis" was exactly, he wasn't sure.  Something nebulous and elusive, some kind of abstraction.  Sometimes, he thought that there was no real him, only an entity, something illusory, and though he could touch himself and feel flesh and bone underneath his fingertips, he simply wasn't there.  Then, he'd hastily remind himself that who you were was only what you chose to present yourself as. And, more importantly, what others saw you to be.  

There were days when he'd get pensive and morose like this.  Dennis chalked it up to the books indulging his more introspective side.  On one day, he was putting books back on the shelves, thinking about a book he'd just read and absolutely loved called The Picture of Dorian Gray, when a hand reached out from the other side of the shelf and grazed his.

Dennis let out a small yelp of surprise, eliciting a feminine giggle from the other side of the shelf.  Dennis recognized the laughter as that of the librarian.  "Miss Klinsky?" he asked.

The librarian walked around to reveal herself.  She was an older woman, about 50, but in his limited interactions with her so far she'd acted like someone much younger.  Subtly teasing and playful, kind of like his family's maid Josephina.  Miss Klinsky wasn't beautiful like Josephina, though.  She wore glasses and her mousy brown hair in a bun, and she had a yen for frumpy cardigans and skirts that went down to her ankles.  She looked like Rick Moranis, truthfully.

She laughed again when she approached him, a low, conniving sound that came from the back of her throat.  "Oops.  Didn't mean to scare you.  Just making sure my library is organized."

Dennis searched for something to say.  He wasn't often at a loss for words, but he could have sworn there was something funny about the way she was looking at him.  Examining him, almost, as if he were a museum statue or a particularly interesting work of art.  Which was flattering in theory, but a bit unsettling in practice.  "That's alright," he said at last.  "Gotta, um, keep order."

She stood there and stared at him for a beat too long.  As she turned to walk away, she said, "I'm very interested in getting to know you."  

 _Odd,_ he thought.

 

A similar occurrence happened a few days later.  Dennis was manning the check-out desk, doing some of his math homework.  Scrunching up his forehead, he erased an answer irritably.  Stupid equations.  He should just make Dee do this.

The hairs on his neck prickled, alerting him of a presence directly behind him.  The librarian.  He started to twist around in his seat to see what she wanted, but she placed her hand upon his shoulder.  "No, don't get up," she instructed in a strange, husky voice.

The hand on his arm radiated an uncomfortable heat.  Dennis settled back in his chair.  He felt Miss Klinsky bring her face close to his, her moist breath on his ear.  "You're a good boy, Dennis, aren't you?" she whispered, though they were the only people in the room.  In fact, it seemed at once like they were the only people in the universe.

Dennis cleared his throat, but the voice that quivered out was little more than a weak, boyish whine.  "Y-Yes, Miss Klinsky, you c-could say that."

"A good student," she murmured.

"I-I get A's..."

He sensed her smile, lithe, serpentine.  "Your teachers like you?" 

Dennis' breath knotted in his chest.  "I guess so."

"Are you a _teacher's pet_ , Dennis?"

He closed his eyes, slowly, and opened them.  "I-I don't know."

She leaned in closer and he felt the soft cushion of her breasts against his shoulder.  " _Do you want to be?_ "

He sat there, heart palpitating.  Then, before he could muster a response, the library door flew open.  Miss Klinsky stood up and smiled at an incoming female student.  "Good afternoon," she said.  "Do you need any help?"

"Actually," the girl replied, "I was looking for some biographies on Joseph Stalin?"

"I'll show you where they are."

Dennis watched Klinsky usher the student farther down the room.  Glancing down at himself, he saw shamefully that he was hard.  Good thing he was behind a desk.  His palms had sweated onto his math worksheet.  Dennis wiped them against his pants and tried to bring himself back to schoolwork, but found concentration impossible.  When the period bell rang, he paused at the door and looked back, expecting Klinsky to say or do something flirtatious.  However, it seemed that she'd reverted back to full librarian mode, barely looking up at him when he left.  Frustrated, hurt, and confused, he brooded throughout the rest of the school day.  Later at home, he retreated to his bedroom, where he jacked off feverishly.  

 

Two weeks passed without any further meaningful contact.  Strangely, Dennis realized that he was disappointed.  Maybe Klinsky had lost interest.  And if she'd lost interest, that suggested the possibility that he was not as desirable as he thought himself to be.  It could mean that he was undesirable, like his sister.  If a spinster librarian thought he was beneath her... well, it did not bode well for him.

 Not as many girls seemed to be looking at him anymore.   _Maybe they never were looking at you,_ a familiar voice jeered inside his head.   _Maybe they were looking at one of the other boys.  Like Adriano Calvanese.  He's taller than you and bulkier._ At this, Dennis cringed, raising his hands to his temples as if to rub out the thought.  Yes, yes, Adriano was a beefcake, but he didn't have Dennis' glorious facial symmetry _or_ his amazing grace  _or_ his Romantic-poet-white skin _and therefore he was absolutely not, not better-looking than him, goddamn it!_

 

It happened on an average day, dull and listless.  Dennis walked into the library to find Miss Klinsky standing a few feet away from him, as if she'd been waiting for his arrival.  She'd pulled her hair out of its severe bun and although the result was underwhelming, it was a marked improvement.  She'd also exchanged her ill-fitting clothes for a black, plunging V-neck blouse and a matching A-line skirt.  For a brief moment, reeling from shock, Dennis pondered how she could have possibly gotten away with sauntering into school like that.  Then he realized, dear God, she must have _changed_ into those clothes in here, minutes before he arrived.

She smiled.  "Hello, Dennis.  Why don't you come over here for a second."

Reluctantly, Dennis obeyed.  When he'd crossed over to where the librarian stood, she held up one hand and said, "Stay there."

She walked briskly over to the door, and he heard the lock click.  Dennis grew cold.  Turning, Miss Klinsky fixed on him a lecherous, pulsing smile.  Her nails played with the collar of her shirt, rubbing at the skin beneath as she advanced towards him.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tucked in a movie reference in the beginning there. Did you find it?


	3. Boys Don't Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of rationalization and denial here, plus signs of PTSD, rape, disordered eating, and some sex that kind of dips into non-consensual territory.

Honestly, if Dennis had to choose, he would not have lost his virginity to a wrinkled, 50-year-old woman.  He would have chosen a girl his own age.  And he would have been the one on top.  Although, he figured having sex with anyone was better than not having sex at all.  Right?  There was also the added cred of having seduced an older woman.  He only wished that it hadn't been so uncomfortable.  But all first times were probably like that, he supposed.  And it hadn't been _so_ bad.  After all, he came; that must have meant it was good.  Didn't it? 

 

He was still shaking twenty minutes into the next class, though, and there was this awful ringing noise in his head.  Digging his nails into his palms, Dennis tried to concentrate on what the teacher was saying.  The teacher, a portly man with a massive wart on his nose, droned on about evolution or something.  Dennis strained himself to pay attention, but found that all he could focus on was the teacher's wart.   _Why didn't he get it burned off?_ he wondered, his thoughts a little muddled.   _Why did he let it sit there in all its repugnance on his nose so that all his students were forced to stare at it?_

He rubbed his temples, wincing.  The fluorescent lights flickering from the ceiling seemed to be a lot brighter than he remembered, saturating the room with their blinding white.  They made him feel funny, like he was about to slip out of his skin.  The ringing noise grew louder in his head, drowning out all other sound.  Then Dennis bolted upright and ran for the door.  "Restroom. Emergency," he panted.  

Hand cupped over his mouth, he fled from the room and into the hall, barely making it into the boy's restroom in time to dive into one of the stalls and puke into the toilet.  In rolling waves, he unleashed the contents of his stomach.  When finally he figured he'd thrown up everything he'd eaten that day, Dennis shakily stood and wiped his mouth with a piece of toilet paper.

 _Nerves,_ he told himself, staring back at the mess in the toilet bowl.   _Just nerves._

Dennis left the stall and walked up to one of the sinks.  For some reason, he felt compelled to wash his hands for a long time.  He stared into the mirror.  His face had blanched to a near bloodless pale.  Strange, he felt a little disoriented looking at himself, as if the face looking back at him wasn't his.  Whatever.  He slapped some color back into his cheeks, wishing that he'd remembered to steal Dee's blush from home, and left.  

 

*****

 

"Okay," Dee said, looking him in the eyes one morning at breakfast.  "Something's definitely wrong with you, so you'd better start talking."

Hands tensed around a mug of coffee, Dennis tried to play dumb.  "What are you talking about?"

Dee shrugged, forking eggs into her mouth.  "Oh, nothing.  It's just that you look like you're going to keel over is all."

"What?"  

Dee gestured at the barely touched plate of eggs on the table in front of him.  "Well, you haven't been eating much lately.  Now, normally I wouldn't give a shit what you do, but since you're my brother, I guess in some ways I'm forced to care about you and whether or not you plan on becoming a human skeleton."

Dennis looked over at his eggs, feeling his stomach flip.  "I don't know, I just haven't had much of an appetite lately."  Honestly, he'd been having a lot of trouble keeping food down.  It had gotten to the point that he'd decided to skip the hassle and go without.  No point in consuming a whole meal if it was going to come right back up an hour later.  The slim-fit designer jeans that he'd gotten at the beginning of the school year now hung loosely around his waist.  Secretly, Dennis was pleased.  There were real hollows in his cheeks now, and a delicate filigree to his collarbone.  He admired himself when he stood naked in front of his bedroom mirror.  Raising his arms above his head so that his hip bones jutted out, he imagined himself pared to an elegant thinness, everything soft and vulnerable about him chiseled away until he was honed like a shard of glass: beautiful and deadly.

Dee narrowed her eyes at him.  "You've been acting weird, too.  I can't explain it.  Meaner than usual."

At this, Dennis giggled with delight.  "Not my fault you can't keep up, sis.  You can't expect me to resist taking jabs at you when you're so whiny and pathetic."  He drank from his coffee, the caffeine spiking something in his blood.  He felt aggressive, virile.  

Dee's nostrils flared.  "Fine.  Keep lying," she hissed, "but I'm not going to be blamed for when you pass out and crack your skull open on the floor, so..."  She opened her purse, rummaged inside it, and threw him a plastic baggie.

Dennis' eyes widened.  Inside was a sizable amount of marijuana.  

"Got it from Ronnie the Rat," Dee explained coldly.  "Planned to use it for myself, but fuck, you need it more than I do.  You know,  _for your appetite."_ She drew that last part out mockingly, a snarl fixed upon her thickly cherry-glossed lips.  It was rich that she should be lecturing him about there being something wrong with him when her abuse of cosmetics was a glaring sign of insecurity, Dennis thought.  Smearing that repulsive glittery eyeshadow around her eyes made her look like a whore.  A skinny, lonely whore that was part machine and part annoying bitch.  He smiled, satisfied as he watched her go, back brace clanking and squealing behind her.   _That's right.  Leave, whore._

The pot worked.  Not only did the constant nausea in his stomach dissipate, but so did the ever-present edginess that Dennis had been experiencing since he quit volunteering at the library.  Gone was the anger simmering just beneath the surface.  Gone were the headaches and sudden onrushes of panic which left him sweating and gasping for air.  He'd smoke before lunch and float the rest of the day on a cloud of good vibes.  When he depleted all of the stash Dee gave him, which didn't take long, he sought out Ronnie the Rat for more.  Ronnie the Rat, who preferred to go by Mac, turned out to be a pretty cool guy in spite of his nickname.  Kinda cute really, with a puppy dog face and large brown eyes.  The dealer offered a discount if Dennis smoked the pot with him and his friend Dirt Grub (Charlie) at their hang-out under the football field bleachers.  Soon, Dennis found himself spending every lunch period (and sometimes 5th period, too) with them.  He'd hate to admit it, but he liked spending time with these two more than he did with Adriano and his lackeys.  At least with Mac and Charlie, Dennis knew where he stood.  Poor and dim-witted, they posed no threat to his ego.  Mac particularly looked at him with a shining admiration.  Dennis liked that.

 

*****

The girl squirmed on the bed underneath him, her long blond hair spread out like a fan across the pillow.  Holding her arms over her head by her wrists, Dennis thrust himself into her bare, nubile body.  The girl flinched, a grimace of pain twisting in her face.  

"Ah," she groaned.  "Is it supposed to hurt this much?"

Dennis smiled gently down at her, relishing the sight of her supple tits.  "Shh, it's okay.  It'll be over soon."

She jerked her arms in his grasp, turning her head away.  "Can you at least slow down?  Or take your hands off me?"

A mass of dark, throbbing rage swelled inside him.  He tightened his hands around her wrists, feeling the grinding of bone.  Delicate, bird-like bone.

The girl gasped, fear in her eyes now.  "Please, stop!"

 _In a minute,_ he thought dispassionately, quickening his pace.  He grunted, heat building in his groin, and loosened his hands, eliciting an immediate sigh of relief from his partner.  Dennis flexed his muscles as he continued riding her, hoping that she appreciated how toned his abs were; he'd begun a strict workout routine that was already showing impressive results.

The girl lay there without protest until he came a minute later with a low moan, collapsing onto the bed.  He let out a noise of deep contentment and began to stroke her hair.  She barely responded to his touch, only stared into space.  At last, she said, quietly, "I think I'm bleeding a little."

Dennis looked and saw the small, red stain on the covers.  "It happens." He stretched and lay back upon the bed.  "Now, get the hell out of my room."

It occurred to him later that he didn't even know her name.

 

*****

Soon, the pot stopped working.  So Dennis began sneaking some of his mother's pills.  When those stopped working, he started keeping a thermos of vodka in his locker, taking sips in between classes.  This seemed to do the trick.  However, the feeling he had of not really being there gnawed away at him more intensely than ever now; he could feel it like a giant, gaping hole inside himself.  Occasionally, the chasm would widen, creating fissures in his psyche that allowed everything he worked so hard to keep buried to come rushing back into his head all at once.  There'd be a glitch in his system, like the jamming of a tape, and his thoughts and memories would replay over and over.  He'd think about the librarian, taking off her glasses before she climbed on top of him.  He'd think about the popular kids, Tim Murphy's hair and Adriano's muscles.  He'd think about his sister Dee casting him suspicious looks, asking him what was wrong.  He'd think about Mac and how stupidly, genuinely happy he seemed to be despite being a poor loser.  How happy other kids at his school seemed to be.

One night, Dennis found himself standing atop the edge of the balcony outside his window, wind rustling through his hair.  Voices echoed in his brain.   _You're not like them.  You're empty.  Empty, empty, empty.  Other people are full, complete.  You're just a cipher with skin._ Tears were streaking down his face.  It was early spring, cool, and he could feel a storm brewing in the dark sky.  He didn't remember how he got up here.  

Then it was like the tape switched again in his head, and he reverted back to default.  Dennis jerked back, away from the edge.  He wiped his eyes.  And he thought,  _Move past it._   He knew how to make himself full.

 

*****

He walked through the school hallways, scanning the girls with a predatory fervor.  His gaze always sought out the petite, shy ones, the vulnerable ones with soft skin that gleamed with their innocence.  He liked virgins best.  They fulfilled his compulsion to defile and corrupt.  He'd take and take from them until they were left limp and red-eyed husks of their former selves, sobbing to him over the phone to please don't leave them.  Dennis would toss them away and move on to the next one.  On to his next thrill, his next high.  Leaving a graveyard of broken hearts in his wake, he felt cruel and powerful, even invincible.

 

 _You are not like everybody else,_ he thought to himself, again and again.  If you repeat something enough times, you start believing it to be true: _You are not like everybody else.  Because you are better.  You.  Are.  Better._  

 

 

 

 


End file.
